


With Age, Comes Wisdom (And Derek)

by vodkaanddebauchery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Humor, M/M, Phone Sex, Sexting, Sexual Frustration, Somewhat-ironic use of the phrase "wants the d", being law-abiding citizens, the drabble that took over the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:35:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodkaanddebauchery/pseuds/vodkaanddebauchery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He manages to last two minutes, jittery and itchy beneath his skin, before he slides his phone back out and texts without really looking at the screen. </p><p>'I AM IN CLASS WHWAT ARE YOU DOING DICK PICS WHY NO O'</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Age, Comes Wisdom (And Derek)

**Author's Note:**

> A little drabble for an anon on tumblr that went completely out of control.  
> Oops. 
> 
> Posted without beta-ing; any mistakes are mine. 
> 
> ....I'm so sorry.

If Stiles had to write a poem about the week leading up to his birthday, it would go something like:

_Roses are red,_  
 _Violets are blue_  
 _So are my balls_  
 _but we are law-abiding citizens so we are waiting_  
 _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

He didn’t know why Derek was so twitchy about the waiting-until-18 thing, but he respected Derek’s choice (see! he respected his boyfriend’s choice! that’s a responsible adult thing to do!) and so a very passionate, very sexually frustrated celibacy paved the road up to the big 1-8. 

But Stiles was apparently a masochist because just waiting was _boring_ , and he might as well channel that sexual frustration into something productive - which may or may not have been a series of compromising cell phone photos, unceremoniously snapped on a whim and sent to Derek as if to say, _I love you and respect your decision to honor statutory laws, but you are missing out on this awkward hotness._

And then he didn’t think anything of it, because of course Derek would take it out on him the night he turned 18. Derek was better with his impulse control, which meant that he would bide his time.  
.... Maybe.  
...Hopefully. 

It’s in the middle of English, five days away from his birthday, that his phone buzzes in his pocket, and, like every other 17-year-old trying to while away some classtime, he discreetly pulls it out and checks the message under his desk. 

And then he nearly drops the damn thing because yep, that’s a picture message of a cock. And thighs, and feet, and what the fuck they were all on _his couch at home_ and Stiles can’t close his phone and shove it back into his pocket fast enough, lest someone see Derek’s very, very, poorly-timed picture. 

He manages to last two minutes, jittery and itchy beneath his skin, before he slides his phone back out and texts without really looking at the screen. 

_I AM IN CLASS WHWAT ARE YOU DOING DICK PICS WHY NO O_

Okay, so it’s not his finest masterpiece in the art of SMS, but he thinks he gets his point across. He closes out of the texts and shuts his eyes, trying to listen to whatever’s going on in class - seriously, fuck education, his joke of a sex life is way more important at this point - and all he can see is the image that Derek had sent him like it’s burned into the backs of his eyelids. Derek obviously angled his phone up high to get as much as possible into the frame - the trail of hair starting at his navel and leading down like an invitation, the half-erect curve of his cock (and here Stiles barely manages to keep himself from slamming his head on his desk, oh yes, Stiles will not deny that he wants the d), the dark sparse hair on his thighs, the muscular curves and angles of legs and knees. Even his toes were sexy, _his fucking toes._ And all of that naked, horny werewolf is currently lounging in his home, on his couch, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. 

Stiles is so, so tremendously fucked and he hasn’t even handed in his V-card yet. 

He’s probably hyperventilating like a lunatic and there is no calming down from this. He’s on the precipice of losing his mind. He has never wanted to break the law so badly in his entire life, and that’s counting the times that he’s _actually broken the law._

And then the phone buzzes again. With trepidation, Stiles pulls it out and glances at the screen. 

_You have one [1] new video message!_

Stiles suppresses a scream and lurches out of his seat, well aware that now everyone’s staring at him. Even the teacher has paused, chalk in hand, mouth gaping open. 

“Bathroom,” he manages, voice strangled. “I think - Flu -” and speeds out of the classroom like he’s fucking Steve McQueen tearing up the streets of San Francisco, but only if Steve McQueen was getting sexts and trying to wish a sexy werewolf into his pants then and there by sheer force of will alone. 

Okay, so it’s not the best metaphor, but Stiles’ mind is racing until he gets to the (thankfully, mercifully) empty Men’s and crashes into a stall, slamming the door shut and locking it. 

He doesn’t even bother opening the video message, because the last vestiges of his sanity insist that it will probably end him physically. He calls Derek instead. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing,” he hisses into the phone when Derek answers, before Derek even speaks. “Are you trying to kill me with the sexy picture and the sexy video that I haven’t even watched yet?” 

The answer is no. No, Derek was not trying to kill him with the sexts, because Derek is now trying to kill him just by talking. 

As soon as he breathes it’s obvious what he’s doing. “Not kill,” he admits, sounding spaced out and breathless. “Teaching you a - fuck - a lesson was what I was going for.” 

Stiles definitely does not strain to hear the sounds of his boyfriend jerking off - on his couch, no less - over the phone in the bathroom of his high school. “What kind of lesson is that,” he asks faintly, feeling like he’s going to burst out of his skin. Derek must, oh god, he must be doing something with his hand (apart from the obvious), he can see the image clear in his mind’s eye - the swipe of a palm over the leaking head of his cock, the deft twist of a wrist at just the right angle - because he takes a shaky inhale and bites back a noise that could generously be called a keen but more accurately be called a needy whine. 

“You - you fucking started it,” Derek says. “You sent me pictures of your - your fingers in your damn mouth, _fuck_ , your _mouth,_ and -” 

Stiles remembers the pictures he sent Derek. He remembers them vividly, as people do with things that come back to bite them in the ass. There may or may not have been a lot of tongue and saliva involved, because Stiles is definitely a masochist, and payback is a bitch. 

“So I -” Derek exhales and sounds like he’s collecting himself. “I had to do something and this was the only thing -” 

Stiles groans a little, despite himself, despite the fact that he’s still at school. He leans back and slams his head against the tile wall. “I hate you, I hate your werewolf guts right now, oh my god I hate you so much.” 

Derek laughs, sharp and breathless. Stiles can hear his smile. “Tell me how much you hate me, Stiles.” His voice shifts a step deeper, quieter. “Please.” 

Squirming, Stiles inhales a shaky breath - he sees this for what it is, can picture Derek quietly, desperately, writhing on the couch, hand fisting his cock and toes curling, waiting for Stiles to prompt him closer to orgasm. He definitely groans this time. “I - fuck, is phone sex with the underaged technically illegal or - “ 

“Stiles,” Derek growls, “ _Please._ ” 

And that’s his Achilles’ heel, because Stiles starts babbling every filthy thought he’s had ever since he and Derek had that conversation about waiting, all those months ago, every impulse and want he’s saved up like dirty pennies for a rainy day. Offhandedly, he really hopes no one’s waiting outside the restroom when he starts saying things like, “I was gonna let you finger me, suck your fingers into my mouth and get them nice and wet, but you fucking ruined my day with your sexting so I’m just gonna do that myself -” 

Derek makes a broken noise and Stiles takes that as an indication that he plow ahead. “And you’ll have to watch but you won’t be able to touch,” he says into the phone. “I could do that for _hours_ , getting myself so ready and open while you just watch and keep your hands off, and it’ll all be because you thought it was a brilliant idea to send me video of you masturbating while we were analyzing King Lear -” 

“Stiles, shut up about King Lear,” Derek says. Stiles wonders what his expression is, if his face is screwed up in concentration, or loose in rapture. And he desperately, desperately wants to find out for himself. 

“But maybe,” he blurts, ignoring the lust hitting him like a punch to the gut, “maybe if you ask really nicely I’ll let you fuck me, because I’ve been thinking about it for months and I might actually die if we don’t do it soon - and god Derek, I don’t know what I want to do first, to ride your cock or to have you lick me open and then fuck me into the mattress, or - who am I kidding, I want you to fuck me, I want to be able to feel it for days -” 

The sound that Derek makes doesn’t even sound human, like all the desperate lonely things in the world rolled up into one intangible sound, and Stiles wants to be right there with him, to kiss him and bite the tendons in his neck and whisper filthy, loving things in his ear as he strokes himself, straining, into orgasm. He wants to ask if Derek is close but the desire is barreling any hesitation, any tentative questions out of his way. “Derek,” he says, skin itching, “Derek, I need you to come now. You can come, do it for me -” 

Derek does. Stiles shuts his eyes and tries to imagine how messy it is, the improbable curve of Derek’s back arching, the streaks of cum painting his skin all the way up to his chest as he comes and comes, breath pounding out of him. He imagines the fine sheen of sweat that would be all over him, and finds that he’s actually sweating himself, palms damp and throat dry. They sit in silence for long moments, Derek’s breath coming slower and slower. 

“What,” Derek’s voice drags in a groan over the line, “the fuck was that.” 

Stiles isn’t quite sure, but laughs shakily. “That? Is how much you suck. Because I’m still at school and I’m supposed to be throwing up with the stomach flu right now, and miraculously, I don’t even have a hand down my pants.” 

“I suck? I think that was generous,” Derek shoots back, sounding more alert than he did for the entire duration of the call. “You’ve got something to fuel you for the next five days.” 

“Four.” 

“Five.” 

“Birthdays start at midnight, we are going to be ready to go by 12:01 in the morning and not a moment later," Stiles says, trying to put as much finality as he possibly can into it. A moment later he adds, “And I’m not ever letting you on my couch again."


End file.
